


you've got a friend in me

by riptheh



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, basically ryan and thirteen brotp as ryan helps thirteen heal from her trauma, lighthearted but also very angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:14:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22206946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riptheh/pseuds/riptheh
Summary: The Doctor is not okay. Ryan notices.(Basically, the Doctor is Not Okay after the loss of Gallifrey, and Ryan just wants to be a good friend.)
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor & Graham O'Brien, Thirteenth Doctor & Ryan Sinclair, Thirteenth Doctor & Yasmin Khan
Comments: 81
Kudos: 401





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So this is a fic I've been working on over the past week. It's five chapters, all already written, and will probably be posted over the next week or so. It's a short angst/hurt/comfort fic that explores the Doctor and Ryan's friendship. No shipping here, because literally ew.

“Nice, isn’t it?”

The Doctor strides ahead of them in that vaguely protective way she has, like a teacher leading children to class. Graham and Ryan and Yaz traipse after her, casting interested glances around the building. It’s all glass and steel and fake plants, only vaguely similar to the last spa.

“I’m not sure I’m so keen on another spa, after last week,” Graham stage-whispers to Ryan, who swallows a snort. 

“Don’t look like we’ve got much choice, do we?” he replies. Graham opens his mouth, then looks ahead, to the Doctor, and sighs.

“Don’t suppose we do,” he grumbles. 

And it’s not that they don’t want the relaxation—in fact, they could use it. It’s more in the way the Doctor shoves it at them, like a parent trying to shove mushy peas into a baby’s mouth, all force and love and _please, just take it_.

Distractin’, is what it is. Only Ryan can’t figure out what for. Except that she’s been quiet.

Quiet, and that’s a whopping big clue in itself. The Doctor is never quiet, doesn’t even have a ‘lower volume’ switch, and barely knows how to whisper. She’s all manic, fuzzing energy and enormous smiles, quips and cool facts and funny stories, and most of all, she never, ever stops talking.

Except for the past six planets, where she hasn’t said a word. Oh, the occasional comment, maybe a recited script about the planet itself, delivered with as much enthusiasm as an underpaid tour guide. But drawing anything more out of her, Ryan has quickly discovered, is about as easy as pulling teeth.

She simply…doesn’t want to talk. He doesn’t know why. Neither do the others, and even worse, since the day when they cornered her, dragging the stalest of stale facts out of her gritted teeth, she hasn’t even pretended. Hasn’t joked around, hasn’t tried for smiles or laughter. Only dragged them to another planet, then another, and now here they are, at the second spa in a row because the first turned out to be a disaster, trying to have fun.

“This will be fun!” the Doctor calls back to them with just enough of an edge to make it desperate. Yaz gives her a big smile, which drops the moment the Doctor’s gaze drifts away. She twists instead to shoot Ryan a worried look, who shrugs. How is he supposed to guess what’s eating at the Doctor? It’s not as if she’ll tell them anything. She never does.

Just a strange string of names and terms— _Gallifrey, Kasterborous, Time Lord_ —which hadn’t appeared in any of the books he and Yaz had checked in the library. Ryan is almost certain she’s made them up. Yaz disagrees.

So it goes like that, the three of them both united and at odds, circling tentatively around the Doctor and yet never getting close, lest she snap. She looks like she might, is the thing, and Ryan has never found the Doctor to be scary, but he’s always been well aware of the potential. The last thing he wants is to be caught under her radar.

“Better than the last time, I hope,” Graham mutters, and immediately receives an admonishing glare from Yaz. She’s been protective of the Doctor lately, like a mother cat defending her kittens, and it would be impressive if it weren’t so annoying.

“It’ll be _great_ ,” Yaz hisses, then repeats herself loud enough for the Doctor to hear. “I mean, it sounds great, Doctor.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah.” The Doctor is barely listening. She stops at a turn, examining the sign. “Absolutely spectacular, I swear. The attendants are actually robots equipped with scanners to read your level of emotional stress and give you a tailored relaxation plan. State of the art technology.”

She rattles it all off as if memorized, which it very well might be. Yaz is listening with interest, Graham with slight trepidation. Ryan takes it upon himself to examine the sign as well. He sees _Pool_ and _Sauna_ and _Virtual Tennis Courts_ , but no bathroom.

“Er, Doctor,” he calls, feeling slightly like a child tugging on his mother’s shirttails. “Nice place and all, but is there a bathroom?”

“Bathroom?” The Doctor wrinkles her nose, and for one horrified moment Ryan wonders if there isn’t. The TARDIS is a maze of hallways away—he could never find the way back.

Then her face clears, and she points behind him. “Just ask the attendant!”

Ryan turns, catches sight of a person talking to a spiffly dressed robot, whose face is no more than a round screen displaying lists of data, its body sleek metal. As he stares, the data on the robot’s face disappears, and a virtual smile takes its place. It flourishes a hand, and produces a piece of paper, which the person takes.

“Uh…” Ryan stares. At his hesitation, the Doctor comes up beside him, and beckons.

“C’mon, no need to be scared! I’ll introduce you.”

Ryan still doesn’t feel particularly keen on talking to a robot—er, attendant—particularly one who looks so artificially happy, but the Doctor is already striding forward, coattails flapping, so reluctantly, he follows. The Doctor doesn’t wait; by the time Ryan arrives, she’s already deep in conversation, gesticulating wildly.

“Bathroom. No, the loo. No, not the lookout! The toilet, or the john, or—”

“John is not on our regular list of attendants.” The robot cocks its head, its face still a smile. “Would you like to hear our relaxation options?”

“No,” the Doctor huffs, only to swing around and send a glare at Ryan’s snort. “Oi, it’s on your behalf I’m doing this! Would you like to give it a go?”

“Sure.” Ryan steps forward, and waves a hand at the attendant, who turns stiffly to face him. “Hello, robot man. Where’s the men’s toilet?”

“Two halls down, on the left.” Ryan’s grin only broadens as the Doctor lets out a frustrated breath, hands on hips. “Is there any other way I may assist you?”

The Doctor is still glaring daggers at Ryan, who only shakes his head and smiles at the robot. “No, I’m good. Thanks, robot man.”

He reaches out and pats the robot on the shoulder, who continues to smile benignly. As Ryan turns on his heel, he hears a whir and a click as the robot spins back to the Doctor.

“Hello. Would you like to hear our relaxation options?”

“No, I would _not_ —”

“Yes, she would!” Ryan hollers without looking back, and chuckles to himself at the Doctor’s annoyed huff. He hears the affirmative of the robot, followed by the sounds of angry sonicking, which don’t seem to do a thing. Ryan, now several meters away, just barely catches the results.

“Scan complete. Your results are: high emotional distress, supplemented by feelings of grief, anger, and loneliness. There are no options available to help you at the basic member level. We would highly suggest purchasing a gold level membership, which includes therapeutic massages, psychological hypnosis sessions, and dream interven—”

Ryan’s grin slides off his face like half-melted ice cream. He can almost hear the splat as it hits the ground. He stops in his tracks, straining to hear, and only catches the sound of the sonic. This time, it seems to work. The robot attendant jutters to a halt, then falls into silence. In it, Ryan can suddenly hear his own breathing, mingled with that of the Doctor’s harsh inhales.

For a moment, he contemplates looking around. Half of him wants to. She’s his friend, after all—what good of a mate would he be if he didn’t?

But she’s also the Doctor, and the Doctor is a little scary, very secretive, and not keen on sharing. Whatever Ryan had heard, she clearly hadn’t wanted him to. She might not even know he heard. Should he give himself away? Was it worth it?

“Ryan?” The Doctor’s voice, polite and too-even, sounds behind him. “Weren’t you going to the bathroom?”

“Er, yeah.” Ryan jerks to life, takes another step forward. He doesn’t look around. “Just forgot for a sec where he told me to go.”

“Two halls down, to the left.” She’s studying him. He can feel her eyes burning into his back.

“Oh. Thanks.” He doesn’t look around. He should. He doesn’t. Instead he hurries off to the direction of the toilets, and lets the knowledge of what he just heard sink into his chest. It’s a funny feeling. Not quite worrying, even. Just funny. A little too large to wrap his head around.

Because suddenly, Ryan has the feeling that the Doctor is not okay at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys, for the lovely comments! I'm glad to see that people also want to see Ryan and the Doc, as I had a ton of fun writing this. I thought i'd post again in anticipation of the coming episode tomorrow/today, depending on where you are. which, by the way, i am PSYCHED for.

“Doctor?” Ryan stands with his toes wiggling over the edge of the open floor panel the Doctor has disappeared into, and peers downward into the darkness. “You down there?”

“Sure am!” Her voice echoes farther than he expects. There’s a clang, followed by several more, and then she appears, welding mask and all, a soldering gun in hand. “Hiya, Ryan, what’s your trouble?”

“Er, not much.” For a second, he rethinks bothering her. She looks like she’s deep in repairs, hair pulled back and all, and he feels bad. She’s been taking more alone time lately, and he’s not sure why, but he thinks it might be a good thing, or something. He took a lot of alone time after his mum’s death. Of course, nobody has died lately, but still.

Except it’s the light. 

Ryan’s not a picky person. He’ll eat just about every type of food, doesn’t mind most sounds, and has never had much sensitivity to anything. Except that he really, for reasons even he himself cannot fathom, does not like blue lighting.

It’s too dim, is the problem. And the TARDIS has always been rather dimly lit, but there’s something about the cold of the blue and the strain in his eyes that never fails to give him a headache. And yes, it isn’t his TARDIS, not his decision, but it doesn’t hurt to ask, does it? Politely. Knowing she can refuse, if she decides to stick to her weird headachey mood lighting.

“Well, there is one thing,” he says, and watches the Doctor push her welding mask up, eying him curiously. There’s something strangely guarded about her face, he’s noticed. Ever since the spa, or possibly before. As if waiting for a question she doesn’t want to answer.

“Yes?” she asks, and that’s guarded too. Hesitant. She’s bracing for the worst, he can see it in the hunch of her shoulders, waiting.

“It’s the lighting,” he says, and watches her face clear like the abrupt end of a sun shower. Clouds parting, sun streaming through. “The blue. Normally, I ain’t picky about that stuff, it’s just—well, it gives me a bit of a headache.

“Not a bad one,” he’s hasty to add at the concern on her face, “but just a normal one. You know. It’s the dimness, I dunno. And—” he hesitates— “I know you say the TARDIS doesn’t listen to you and all, but if you could just ask her, maybe?”

For a moment, the Doctor just stares, mouth open. He’s not sure why. Realization is dawning in her eyes, realization he realizes a moment later she’s not about to share, for her jaw snaps shut and she nods.

“Mood lighting. Bad. Okay.” She’s nodding, slowly at first, then with more enthusiasm. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s a bit depressing, isn’t it?” 

She scrunches her nose, and looks around, the picture of annoyance. “Now that you mention it—I don’t like it either. Not a bit. Reckon we can do something about it, can’t we, old girl?”

She gives the floor a pat, and it responds with a doleful beep. The Doctor doesn’t seem to hear the doldrums behind it, however. She grins at Ryan, bright enough to wash away some of his uncertainty, and says:

“Thanks for the heads up, Ryan. I’ll get it fixed right away. Twenty minutes, tops.”

“Right. Thanks.” And it’s with true gratitude that he nods, because really, his head has been aching on and off the past week. Twenty minutes sounds like a godsend; hell, he’d wait twelve hours, as long as it gets fixed.

As it turns out, he waits five. Five hours in the game room, playing Call of Duty and squinting at the screen, pushing the heel of his hand into his eyes, until he gives up and goes to find the Doctor. 

The floor is still open, the lights still blue. Clangs and clunks are coming from down below, accompanied by the occasional curse.

“Oh, for Rassilon’s—”

“Doctor?” 

There’s a pause. Then, tentatively, “Ryan?”

“Yeah, it’s me.” He balances on the edge, unsure what to do. It’s hard to make out much, in the dimness. “I was just, uh…wondering about the lights.”

“Oh, right. The lights.” There’s a guilty sort of quiet, though maybe he’s just imagining the guilt. He’s not annoyed, not really, but his head is starting to pound, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t impatient.

“No rush,” he calls anyway. There’s a sigh, then a clatter, then she pokes her head up again, and gives him a weary smile. Her welding mask is gone; in its place sits goggles, and a smear of greenish oil across one cheek. 

“You sure?” With both hands, she lifts her goggles up and settles them atop her head, leaving two rings around her eyes, like a raccoon. Her hair is still in a ponytail, though now it’s caked with grease. “Seriously, fifteen more minutes—”

Ryan hesitates. The truth is, he really wants those lights off. He misses the warm orange glow they had before, isn’t even sure why the Doctor decided to switch. Who wants blue, anyway? It’s cold, and eerie, and sort of depressing.

“If you say so,” he says, then pauses. “Uh, Doctor?”

“Hmm?” She’s already pulling her goggles back down, preparing to dive back under. 

“Why the blue, anyway? Or did the TARDIS do it?” He has some strange suspicion that he’s stepping on some odd preference of the Doctor—that she secretly hates orange, loves the blue, and is putting off his request. It’s his mum’s fault; she always taught him to think of what others would want first. His nan balanced it out with a healthy dose of knowing when to put his own needs in front. Between the two of them, he thinks he’s turned out pretty well. But still, uncertainty nags at him.

“Well—” The Doctor dithers, clearly reluctant to answer. Her hand flutters uselessly, as if she’s not sure what to say, though Ryan can see an answer working at her tongue. “Uh, well, the TARDIS did it. Sort of. She sort of tunes in, see, and—”

She stops short then, freezes, then gives a jerky shrug. Ryan isn’t sure why. 

“Tunes in?” He frowns. “To what?”

Just then, something clatters down below, jolting the Doctor to life. “Oh! Gotta go!” she cries, and dives, disappearing beneath the floor. Ryan watches her go, a frown still etching his face. 

“Bye,” he calls, but there’s no answer. Blue light still bathes the room. His head aches. He turns, and sets off for his room.

Even there, where he can make the light anything he wants, there’s a certain blueishness to the nice orange he chooses, lapping at the edges of the room. It bothers him, though he knows there’s nothing he can do but wait for the Doctor to fix it. So he flops down on his bed, doesn’t bother pulling back the sheets, and stares at the ceiling, which at the moment happens to depict a swirling nebula. Also painted in tones of blue. He groans.

“Bloody blue,” he mutters, and scrabbles for a pillow, pressing it over his eyes. Dimly, he wonders how long it could possibly take to fix. Five hours the Doctor had been at it. What if she couldn’t solve it? What if he’d be stuck seeing blue forever?

His headache is starting to recede with the darkness. He breathes quietly, feels hot under the pillow, but doesn’t bother removing it. Blearily, he imagines walking to the medbay to get some aspirin, before he remembers that the Doctor keeps none on board. So he sighs again, the pillow too hot against his face, and squeezes his eyes shut. He can wait, he decides. The Doctor said fifteen minutes. He can wait.

He wakes up an indeterminate amount of time later to music. It pervades his dreams, too-loud and obnoxious, and drags him into consciousness. When he opens his eyes, the pillow is gone—he must have shoved it off. Music is blaring as if through invisible speakers, filling every corner of his room. 

No, every corner of the TARDIS. Outside his door, he hears angry footsteps, which he recognizes moments later as Graham’s. He can hear his muttering too, loud enough to sound over the music, through the door.

“Bloody TARDIS waking me up in the middle of the night—”

Middle of the night. Ryan checks his watch, frowning as he tries to remember the last time he’d checked it. Before he’d gone to bed, it had been 6:00 P.M., whereabouts. Now, it’s half-past three. 

Seven hours. Seven hours, and, when Ryan sits up, he catches a line of blue, seeping under the door. Internally, he groans. 

Blue light, and music echoing throughout the TARDIS. Vaguely, he wonders if the two are related.

_‘Cause you had a bad day_   
_You’re taking one down_   
_You sing a sad song just to turn it around_

The lyrics clarify as he steps into the hallway, and he almost grins. It’s the song his mum used to sing when he was a grump, would poke and prod at his six year old frown until it turned the right side way up. He’s had a fondness for it since.

But clearly, the magic isn’t working on everybody. As he steps into the console room, he meets Yaz and Graham, Graham in a robe and slippers, Yaz in fuzzy pajamas, her hair a mess and her expression disgruntled. Graham calls to him over the music, and he has to lean in; he can barely hear a word.

“You want to talk to her, son?” Graham gestures to the hole in the floor next to the console. For a moment, Ryan doesn’t understand. Then he strains his ears, and hears clangs and shouts, the occasional thump of a boot against metal. A machine-aggravated temper tantrum.

“Why should I—?” He starts, then remembers that he was the one to ask the favor in the first place. Graham raises an eyebrow and gives him a pointed look. Ryan sags.

“Ugh. Fine.” He turns on his heel and starts to the hole. As he closes in, the sounds grow louder and clearer, a litany of shouts and curses. Most are in a language he can’t understand. He pauses when he reaches the edge, then sits with his feet hanging over the edge, and calls out softly.

“Doctor?”

For a moment, he thinks she won’t hear him over the music. It’s much louder here, blasting in his ears. He’s tempted to clamp his hands over them. He resists the urge however, and a moment later catches a pause in the shouts and bangs.

“Ryan?”

“Yeah.” He hesitates, feet swinging over the side, then comes to a decision. “I’m coming in.”

“No—wait, everything’s fine—”

But it’s too late. He lands softly, and with only a slight wobble, on what turns out to be metal grating. It’s roomier than he thought, with enough space to stoop, so he doesn’t have to get down on all fours. Down below, however, the music is deafening. As he lands, the song ends, and another immediately starts up in its place.

_The snow glows white on the mountain tonight_   
_Not a footprint to be seen_   
_A kingdom of isolation_   
_And it looks like I’m the queen_

He has to clench his jaw to keep from laughing, though he’s not sure at what. He follows a dim light—blue again—around a corner, and catches sight of the Doctor, her back to him, her gloved hands in fists as she stares at some kind of wired piece of machinery. Her ponytail is falling out of its tie. She doesn’t hear his footsteps until he’s only a few feet away, and then she swings around, nearly hitting him in the face with a wrench.

“Whoa!” He rears back, and nearly falls, only for her other hand to catch him.

“Sorry!” she shouts over the music, which is now reaching Elsa’s crescendo. As she pulls him up, he takes a good look at her, and his eyebrows raise. She’s got a heavy mechanic’s apron on, which only partially succeeds in hiding her general state of bedragglement; her hair is a mess, her goggles askew, and greenish grease is smeared across her face. She’s breathing heavily, as if she’s just got done kicking something very hard. 

“You okay?” He calls, and she nods, which doesn’t look at all convincing.

“Yeah!” She gives him two thumbs up, which looks even less convincing still. “I’m almost there, Ryan—ten minutes, tops! Once I get the music off—”

With that she turns around, back to the wired piece of machinery, which is now inexplicably glowing, and drops to her knees, wrench in hand. Ryan stares.

“You can’t be serious—” But she is, he realizes, and furthermore, she can’t hear him over the music. “Wait—Doctor! Doctor!”

“What?” she twists around to look at him, nose wrinkling in confusion. “I told you, Ryan, I’m almost—”

“I don’t care about the blue lights!” he calls. “Just—come on up, yeah? Take a break, and some tea—”

But she’s shaking her head, already turning around. “No can do, I’m at a critical moment—”

“Doctor—”

“Shh!” She’s waving a hand at him now, as if to say _skedaddle_. 

Ryan doesn’t skedaddle. He watches her, stooped over, his back aching, for several long minutes. 

It’s not about the mood lighting, he’s long since realized. There’s something else going on, something related to the robot’s readings at the spa and her constant time to herself, and possibly even the sad songs blaring across the TARDIS. The Doctor, Ryan is starting to think, is not dealing with something bad, and he’s no idea how to fix it, never mind help. He can only watch, useless.

Well, he _can_ watch. Which is still something.

With exaggerated care—there are lots of strange tools and parts scattered—he settles in a sitting position, and waits. The Doctor doesn’t seem to mind, or possibly, she doesn’t notice. She doesn’t look around.

It takes a while. The music continues to blare, song after song, and thanks to the lights, his headache slowly starts to encroach. He simply blinks, occasionally presses a cool palm to his forehead, and waits. Minutes pass, then stretch into an hour. Then another. 

Eventually, the Doctor starts to waver. He catches it, and almost thinks he’s imagining, except the music wavers too. Just a blip, a skip of the tracks, and a slight sag of the Doctor’s shoulders. Then she’s back, adjusting her goggles and bending over the machinery, hard at work.

It doesn’t last long. As Ryan watches, her muttering drops to a mumble, then trails away. Her tools relax in her grip, her shoulders sag. She leans forward, and for a second Ryan thinks she’s bending over, peering at something particularly interesting, and then he realizes that she’s falling asleep. 

He scrambles forward, and catches her just before her forehead slams into the machinery. She doesn’t wake, only mumbles something indecipherable. As he eases her carefully into his arms and away from the machinery, her head lolls to the side. Her goggles have been knocked askew, and her hair tangled up in the strap.

Gently, Ryan brings her to the floor, wincing as his hand brushes against the cold metal. She’s only wearing her trousers, braces and shirt, along with an apron, her coat discarded somewhere along the way. He looks around, and spots it by an open toolbox that’s full of the strangest bits and bobs he’s ever seen.

He doesn’t touch them. He only drags her coat free, and drapes it over her form. She’s already curled inward as if on instinct, her knees to her chest and her hands nestled under her head. He takes a minute to make sure she’s properly covered—it’s cold down below, uncomfortably so—then carefully pries her goggles off of her head. Immediately, loose hair falls into her face, but she doesn’t seem to care.

“Alright, Doctor,” he mutters, and glances down the way he’d came. It seems coldhearted to leave her there alone, and he’s not sure he has the strength, nor the dexterity, to maneuver her out of the floor without waking her up. And probably, he thinks, she could use the sleep.

It’s only then does he realize that the music has stopped. No—not only has the music stopped, but the blue light has softened, receding into a whiter, calmer sort of glow. The kind he doesn’t mind.

Ryan surveys her for a moment longer, then decides. With a grunt, he heaves himself to the floor, just a foot away, and settles his back against the wall, his knees to his chest. It’s not as cold as he thought; the white light seems to have chased the chill away.

“Okay.” He tilts his head back, lets it rest against the wall. “Okay. You get some rest, then I’ll wake you up, alright? And we’ll go find proper beds.”

But he doesn’t do that at all. The moment his head hits the cool metal walling, his eyes slide shut, and he falls into an unconsciousness that’s mercifully blue light and music free. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kind comments! I haven't gotten around to answering yet, but I just wanted you all to know I very much appreciate them <3

They don’t discuss what happened in the floor—not the tantrum, not the falling asleep, not the two of them waking up, confused and disoriented. The blue light has receded, or at least lightened to a bearable glow, and Ryan has a sneaking suspicion the TARDIS had a hand in it.

They’re a little politer, a little more distant, the two of them, which isn’t saying much, because the Doctor has been distant anyway. She’s still hard at work underneath the floor, no longer working on the lights, but on other bits of machinery Ryan tried once to pronounce and utterly failed.

Constantly. She doesn’t pause to eat, or sleep, as far as Ryan can tell. She pauses only to drag them off to adventures, cleaning herself up only when Yaz catches her with grease in her hair.

It’s strange. No—it’s not. The Doctor has leapfrogged past strange, even past not okay, and landed with a splash on worrying. Ryan doesn’t like it. Neither do the others, and they discuss it sometimes over tea, late at night when they know the Doctor is working. They never come to a conclusion.

Because the thing is, they still don’t _know_. Who she is, even where she came from, really. They don’t know what a Time Lord is. They don’t even know how old she is, or if she goes by the bounds of human psychology. For all they know, this might be normal alien behavior.

Ryan doesn’t think it is. But still, he’s bound, just as the others are bound, in that uneasy gray area of _do or do not_. The uncertainty of plunging their noses into her business, or leaving well enough alone. Of reaching out a hand, knowing she very well might bat it away.

They don’t know what to do. Therefore, they do nothing.

No—that’s not true. They pretend, just like the Doctor is pretending, that everything is fine. They smile and joke and rib her when they’re brave enough, and act like they’re just a fam, traveling the universe. They ignore the deep, inexplicable cracks that have surfaced, because they don’t have the means to glue them up.

Ryan pretends. But he doesn’t ignore. He can’t anymore, not since that thing with the lights. He notices despite himself, and he worries.

It’s the sleep. Or rather, the lack of it. How even in the depths of night—or what passes for night on the TARDIS—he can hear clanks and clangs rattling underneath the floor, along with the occasional mumbled curse. How she never seems to surface, not even for Graham’s dinners, which are admittedly excellent. Or the way she barely hears them when they call, only comes up like clockwork for scheduled adventures, which is an oddity in itself, since the Doctor’s adventures are never scheduled.

It’s strange. It’s concerning. And eventually, Ryan has enough of it.

He’s not one for action, him. Poking buttons he shouldn’t, maybe. Knowing he has to do something he doesn’t want to do is a different matter. He wants to help the Doctor, yes, but he also has keen British sensibilities which tell him not to bother the unbothered. 

Except the Doctor is definitely, indisputably, bothered. So one day, when the Doctor doesn’t show up for dinner—again—he climbs down into the floor to say hi.

“Hi, Doctor.”

“Ryan?” The Doctor spins around, looking very much caught in the act, though all she’s doing, from what Ryan can tell, is pounding away at a piece of unidentified machinery. At least, he can’t identify it. “What’re you doing down here? I’m right in the middle of—”

“Just wanted to see if you wanted dinner.” Cutting her off, he decides, is the best way to elbow himself into the conversation. Let her keep going, he’s learned, and he’ll be locked right out of it. “Graham made shepherd’s pie. It’s really good.”

“Shepherd’s pie?” The Doctor frowns, scrunching her nose. She’s got goggles on again, though today her hair hangs loose around her face. “No, no, I’m good. I don’t eat anything with a title in it. Good rule of thumb, you ask me.” She’s already turning back to her work, shooing him off. “You can tell Graham I’m fine.”

Ryan ignores the rather rude brush-off, and instead settles down on the cool metal flooring, folding his legs beneath him. “No, it’s okay. He’ll just put some in the fridge. I actually thought I could watch you work.”

“Watch me work?” The Doctor swings around the face him with a rapidity that suggests slight panic. “W-why would you want that?”

Ryan gestures to the machinery. “Alien mechanics,” he says. “Looks pretty cool. Who knows—might learn a thing or two.”

The Doctor stares at him for a moment. Then she relaxes, her shoulders dropping. “Oh. Okay. Well, Ryan Sinclair, I’m the best you can learn from. Well, when I say best—you know, best just to watch. And stay back.”

She rattles this off without any of her normal enthusiasm, already turning back to her machinery. Ryan watches her for a long moment, and doesn’t say anything. In truth, he doesn’t care about alien machinery—she’d already shown him some stuff on the TARDIS once, and it had been about as comprehensible as hieroglyphics. Instead, he takes the opportunity to examine her closely for the first time in what might be weeks.

It’s not a pretty picture. The apron and goggles can’t hide the sag of her shoulders, nor her diminished form. Her cheeks are hollow, her trousers sagging too-loose. Weeks, Ryan thinks, of malnourishment taking their toll. He wonders how often Time Lords need to eat, and decides it’s probably the same as humans. Sleep, too, though he’s no idea how to force such a thing. 

He puts that aside for the moment, and focuses on food. Clearly, the Doctor needs to eat. The Doctor also ignores all calls for meals, and leaves whatever food they set aside for her untouched. Somehow, they— _he_ —will have to think of something else.

Ryan watches her, and slowly, an idea forms. He’s not sure if it’ll work, but—it might be worth a try. Hell, anything could be worth a try at this point.

First, though, he’ll need to learn to cook.

————

Two days later, Ryan slides clumsily below the flooring, one hand precariously balancing a plate of biscuits. Hours of watching the Great British Bake Off, along with a recipe he’d scoured off the Internet has led him to this point. He’s not sure if it’ll work, either, because the biscuits he’s holding are not custard creams, but a poor man’s version of jammy dodgers. He’s not even sure he’s got the recipe right, or whether the Doctor will like them—though, that’s not the main point.

The main point is that _he_ made them. That’s what he’s banking on.

“Hey, Doctor,” he calls as he approaches, plate clutched in both hands. He has to stoop over it, and it’s uncomfortable. “Look what I made.”

“Huh?” The Doctor gives a half-hearted glance in his direction. “Oh, brilliant. Tell Graham I’m not hun—”

“No, _I_ made them,” Ryan says. And it’s true. Hours of his morning gone, slaving over the stove, Graham helping while at the same time managing to not terribly help at all. 

But, it had been surprisingly fun. And Graham had said they weren’t bad, not bad at all. 

At the emphasis in his voice, the Doctor gives him a second look. Then, it clicks. “Oh. _You_ made them?”

“Yep,” Ryan says patiently. “Thought I’d pick up a new hobby. You know. Baking and cooking and such.”

Then, before the Doctor can open her mouth the brush him off with some platitude, he shoves the biscuits in her face. “Want one?”

The Doctor hesitates. Even with her goggles on, Ryan catches the way her gaze flickers from the plate, to his face, then back again. Then, slowly, she smiles. It’s polite, indulgent, even. 

Exactly what he wanted.

“Sure,” she says, and picks one up, takes a big bite. To his relief, she doesn’t make a face. She finishes it, brushes crumbs off her apron, then turns back to her work. “Fantastic biscuits, Ryan. Really. I loved it.”

He’s not sure how much of that is true. Still, it’s what he can work with. Quickly, he plasters a big smile on his face, then sets the plate down on the floor. “Oh, great! Yeah, Graham and Yaz already had some, so I’ll leave them here, in case you want more. Since you liked them so much.”

He adds a layer of innocent hope to the last sentence, just to slam the point home. And she gets it—or at least, gets what he wants. She looks at the plate, then looks up, and slaps her own fake smile on. 

“Sure, Ryan. Thank you. Seriously.”

She’s not going to eat anymore. He can tell. She’s already turning away, the plate half-forgotten on the floor. He tries not to be insulted.

It’s the effort, he reminds himself. Not the effect, because that’ll come later, hopefully. For now, it’s the effort.

So after a moment, he turns to go, leaving the plate behind. He’ll pick it up later, he decides, possibly when she does the thing she always does, which is to pass out in the middle of her work, falling asleep in a nest of tools and wiring. Then he’ll sneak back down, and bring the biscuits up.

He does exactly as he plans, hours later, when the clangs and clatters have died down. The plate remains exactly where he’d left it, and the Doctor is fast asleep atop uncomfortable looking bits of machinery. He doesn’t wake her up. Instead, he counts the biscuits.

Six are gone. He smiles to himself, softly, and stoops to take the plate, then thinks better of it. He glances at the Doctor, notices the crumbs on her apron, and shakes his head. Then he stands, and retreats slowly, careful not to wake her up.

The next day, it’s more biscuits. Two days after that, it’s his attempt at some kind of a cake, and a day later, it’s a real meal, vegetables and all. The Doctor is polite, always trying a bite or two, then leaving it on the floor when he goes off. She never wrinkles her nose, never turns away. She doesn’t even seem all that negative about the idea of food. Rather, Ryan realizes, it’s the distraction she doesn’t like, the moment’s pause. It’s as if she’s avoiding stillness, or thought.

He wonders just what thoughts she’s avoiding.

He doesn’t ask her that, though. Instead, he keeps bringing her food, tailoring the menu once he figures out what she really likes. Biscuits will disappear in an instant. Sandwiches as well, though food which requires a fork and a knife will remain half-touched, possibly due to the need to use both hands. She isn’t opposed to eating, Ryan realizes eventually, but stopping. She’s working herself to death in an attempt to outrun—what? Memories? Bad thoughts? Depression?

He has no idea. He still doesn’t have the courage to ask her. In the meantime, though, his plan works. Her hollow cheeks and gaunt appearance fades away. Her clothes actually fit the way they’re supposed to. She no longer looks like she’s starving.

Graham congratulates him on his sharp thinking. Yaz helps him cook. Together, they learn new recipes, test new ways to get the Doctor to eat. It’s almost fun, except that the Doctor isn’t there. Sometimes, Ryan wishes she was. She’d be a right laugh, he knows. Would enjoy what they’re doing. Only lately she hasn’t been enjoying much of anything. And, despite their gentle prying—well, his gentle cooking—they haven’t gotten a word. Not a peep. Not even a letter.

So one day, Ryan decides to up the game.

He doesn’t leave, the next time he brings biscuits. The Doctor glances at him when he comes in, gives him a friendly, if distracted wave, and when he offers her the biscuits, takes one. She turns back to her work with it caught between her teeth, and Ryan waits. And waits. The plate is still in his hands. He doesn’t set it down.

“Doctor?” 

The Doctor freezes. He can see it, the very moment when her shoulders hunch, her wrench pauses mid-turn. She doesn’t look around.

“Yeah?”

It’s all wrong, strained. She doesn’t want to hear whatever he’s about to ask. He almost doesn’t want to ask it. But he thinks he might have an idea—an angle at least—from which to ask, and if nobody ever bothers to poke the Doctor—well, how are they ever going to figure things out?

Still, he shifts, uncomfortable. The words sit awkwardly on his tongue. “Uh, I wanted to ask you something. About the Master.”

If it’s possible, she hunches even farther inward. Her shoulders are nearly up to her ears. Her voice, when she speaks, is snappish. “What about him?”

“I—uh—” This is going exactly how he’d thought—that is to say, badly. “It’s just, you seemed a little out of sorts, and I wondered if that might be related to, uh—to—”

“I’m not,” she snaps, then pauses, and heaves a deep breath. He watches her shoulders move with it. 

“I’m fine,” she says after a long moment. “I’m sorry I’ve been busy lately. I’m just trying to get rid of the blue light—”

The blue light, now closer to white, hasn’t bothered Ryan in weeks. He doesn’t mention it.

“—and fix a few other things. Then we can do more fun things. That sound good? I can take you to the sideways-rotating moons of Trigotha, they’re always a sight. What do you say?”

He should press the issue. She hasn’t even answered the question. He should press, and keep pressing, until whatever’s stopped up inside of her comes spilling out in so many words. Explanations, which by now they surely deserve.

He doesn’t press. He retreats, with very little grace, stepping back and bobbing his head even though she’s not even looking at him. 

“Sure, Doctor. That sounds great.” So quick is he to back off, he nearly forgets to leave the biscuits. He remembers at the last second, and scrambles to set them down before ascending back to the surface, without a further look behind.

Once he gets to the top, he berates himself. Politeness or no, friends are supposed to push friends. Just a little bit. Just enough to figure out when something is wrong. And something is definitely wrong—he can see that in spades. 

Yet here he is again, stuck at step zero. 


	4. Chapter 4

Change, as it so often does, comes by accident, and utterly unexpectedly. And it happens, as things usually happen, when they’re about to die.

Actually, they only think they’re about to die, but it’s real enough to have Ryan sweating, his hands clammy and his heart pounding. They were running, and now they’re surrounded, by aliens with pointy heads and large, sleek guns, which he really doesn’t want to be staring down the barrel of.

“Don’t move!” the Doctor hisses, and Ryan almost laughs because _of course he wasn’t going to move_. Instead he just gulps and nods, hears Graham huff behind him, and knows he’s not the only one a little put out with what was meant to be a visit to alien hot springs.

“Any ideas, Doctor?” Yaz whispers, and Ryan doesn’t hear an answer but can only hope she’s nodding.

“What were you chasing us for?” she yells instead to the aliens, and Ryan’s heart sinks.

“Doctor, I really don’t think—”

“Oi, it’s a valid question!” she replies. “They’re only park rangers, they aren’t meant to—”

“Because you violated the rules!” the lead park ranger shouts, and Ryan stifles a groan. _Of course_ they violated the rules. It’s always violating the rules with the Doctor.

“You entered the park without proper decontamination,” the lead park ranger continues. “Didn’t you read the signs?”

“Er,” the Doctor says, in such a way as to suggest that she did not. At her response, the park ranger frowns, and hefts his weapon.

“Then stay still!” he barks. “We won’t block you from the park, but we need to spray you.”

From behind Ryan, the Doctor inhales sharply. “No, wait, I don’t know if that’s safe for hu—!”

She’s cut off by a noxious cloud of white gas, which expels from the guns and plunges them all into a heavy fog. Immediately, Ryan starts to cough, then gag. Behind him, he hears the same from the other three. Vaguely, he wonders if it’s poisonous, and if so, whether they’re about to die.

Then it disappears, as quickly as it had come, leaving only the four of them, still surrounded by the pointy-headed park rangers. Off to the side, blocked by a rustic wooden fence, a hot spring bubbles peacefully.

The lead park ranger draws back his gun, and gives a mock salute. “Enjoy the park!” he says with a sarcastic lilt Ryan doesn’t like at all. Then he turns and beckons to the other rangers, who start to follow him back down the path they’d run up moments before.

Ryan stares after them. So do the other three. It takes a minute for him to find his voice.

“Uh, are we going to die, Doctor?” His voice is hoarse and scratchy, but clear.

“Die?” The Doctor is still staring after the park rangers, nonplussed. At his words however, she jumps to life and snatches her sonic from her pocket, drawing it up and down over the four of them. Ryan watches as she examines it, the worried crease in her brow slowly relaxing.

“Hmmm….nothing carcinogenic…no…looks like we’re fine!” She looks up and casts them a relieved grin, only to glance down as the sonic gives an insistent beep. Then she looks closer, the crease in her brow deepening once more. “Hang on. But that said it was fine for humans…”

“Doc?” Graham asks. When the Doctor doesn’t answer, only continues to study her sonic, he steps forward and waves a hand. “Doc? Don’t tell me you’re taking back the ‘not dying’ bit. Don’t think my heart could take it.”

“No, no.” The Doctor is shaking her head, still frowning. Then she coughs once, raising an elbow to catch it, before jerking her head up and giving them all a smile. It doesn’t entirely reach her eyes.

“Fine! You’re just fine.” The sonic she shoves into her pocket. Her hands, she clasps behind her back, the picture of innocence. Ryan doesn’t buy it. “See, on certain species, that particular gas has an effect similar to nitrous oxide, or what you’d call laughing gas. Loosened tongue, loads of laughs, wooziness, and—”

She shrugs, and there’s something loose about it. A little off-kilter. “Luckily though, it doesn’t affect humans. So, we can just keep on going, yeah?”

With that, she takes a step forward, and falls. Graham catches her with a grunt of surprise.

“Oi, Doc!” He hoists her to her feet, which does no good; she only falls forward again, slouching against his chest.

“M’fine,” she mutters, and with both hands, pushes herself away from his chest, which only sends her teetering backwards. “Fine, m’fine! Doesn’t affect humans. S’fine.”

“Right,” Yaz says critically. “Only, it sort of looks like…”

“…it’s affecting you, Doctor,” Ryan completes. The Doctor just shakes her head, loose and loggy, and lets out an uncharacteristic giggle.

“No s’not,” she says, and with a mighty heave, pushes away from Graham fully, staggering on her own two feet. “Guys! C’mon. Hot springs.”

She spins on her heel, and staggers again. This time, both Yaz and Ryan rush forward to catch her, but she keeps her balance, and shoos them away. “Guys! I’m fine, guys! Didn’t I say hot springs? They’re right over there!”

She points woozily to the fence blocking off the springs. Behind her, Ryan, Yaz, and Graham exchange a look.

“I don’t know about you lot, but I don’t want her anywhere near those springs,” Graham says. Ryan and Yaz nod in agreement.

“What do we do though?” Ryan drops his voice to a whisper, just in case. When he glances over, the Doctor is waving her sonic wildly in the air, occasionally checking for readings. He’s not sure what she’s searching for.

“Take her back to the TARDIS?” Yaz suggests. “Medbay? I’m guessing we can wait it out.”

“Right,” Graham agrees, “but how’re we gonna get her in there? I mean, look at her!”

He points, and Yaz and Ryan follow his gaze. Sure enough, the Doctor looks a sight. She’s on her knees now, sonicking the purple grass with great interest.

“I don’t know,” Ryan says, and turns back to the others—only to find them watching him, expectant looks upon their faces. “Hang on—what’s that supposed to mean?”

“What’s what?” Yaz asks, but Ryan points between the two of them.

“You. And you. Your faces, the way you’re lookin’ at me. Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?”

Graham and Yaz exchange a glance, then shrug. “Well—” Yaz begins. She’s toeing a hole in the grass, looking distinctly unhappy about whatever she’s about to say. “You know, you are the closest.”

“To the Doctor?” Ryan asks in disbelief. “Uh, no, you’re her favorite, Yaz.”

Yaz opens her mouth—to object or agree, Ryan doesn’t know—but Graham cuts her off.

“You’re also the tallest, son,” he points out. “And the strongest, I’d reckon.”

“I—” Ryan protests, but it’s too late. They’re probably right, is the thing. Ryan is tall, and has enough natural strength to accompany his height. Enough to drag a stray Time Lord back to her ship. 

With a huff, he gives in. “Okay, _fine_. But you two are helping.”

“We never said we wouldn’t!” Yaz chimes in, relief clear upon her face. She looks eager too, Ryan can’t help but notice. Then again, that’s just Yaz—always desperate to prove to the Doctor her chops. 

“Yeah, but also—” Graham tilts his head in the direction of the Doctor. “You know, anytime, son.”

“Huh—oh, right.” The Doctor, luckily, is still sonicking the grass. Ryan turns to her, squares his shoulders, and steps forward, conscious of the other two at his back. Watching, waiting. Hoping.

He hates being put on the spot. And nevermind that, even—what the bloody hell is he supposed to know about helping a drugged Time Lord? He doesn’t even know what that _is_. Because _somebody_ never tells them anything.

“Doctor,” he calls softly, and watches her completely ignore him in order to pluck single blades of grass from the alien soil. “Doctor…”

“Oh, hullo, Ryan.” She doesn’t turn around, but even from behind, he can see the loopy smile stretching across her face. It’s big, and real, so much so that his heart pangs at the sight of it. He’d forgotten how much he’d missed the Doctor’s smile. “Look at this grass! There’s so many of it. I’m counting.”

“Counting.” Briefly, a smile touches his own lips. “Right. Just don’t eat any, yeah?”

He realizes a moment later that it might have been the wrong thing to say to a woman known to eat dirt in her spare time. The Doctor pauses, a handful of purple grass clutched in her fingers, and Ryan can almost see the wheels turning.

“Oh, no you don’t—!”

He lunges forward and scatters the grass from her hand, just before it reaches her mouth. She wilts with disappointment, and behind him, he can hear uproarious laughter. Ryan himself scowls, then twists around to shoot both Graham and Yaz a glare.

“Helping, are we?”

Instantly, they both fall silent. Ryan turns back to the Doctor, who’s staring at her empty hand in disappointment. Then she turns around, and jabs an unsteady finger at him.

“Unfair, Ryan! Grass is good for you! Besides, Time Lords can digest loads of—”

“Right, don’t need to hear that, thanks.”

She falls silent right then, with such suddenness he thinks he’s missed something. Her finger wavers, then falls slowly. All of a sudden, she’s sagging, chin nodding to her chest.

“Whoa…huh…don’t feel normal. That’s strange. Maybe I should have eaten the…”

“Nah, mate, I don’t think so.” He catches her as she slumps forward, and manages to get his hands under her armpits to keep her in a sitting position. He glances desperately then to Graham and Yaz, who only look worried. “Don’t worry, Doctor, we’ll get you back to the TARDIS. Fast.”

“Don’t need the TARDIS,” the Doctor mutters, which Ryan immediately takes as a lie, “need…mmm…bedrest…”

“Which you’ll find on the TARDIS.” In his head, he counts to three, then hoists her up, onto her feet. She falls immediately against his chest, and he lets her, even when her head lolls, knocking painfully against his chin. “C’mon. Yaz and Graham will help. _Right_ , guys?”

In truth, there’s not much for them to do, but they leap forward anyway, and hover anxiously around the pair as Ryan half-drags, half-carries her down the small hill they’d ascended earlier, out the park doors, and to the TARDIS, just left of the parking lot. The key only takes a few minutes of digging around in her pockets to find, and then they’re dragging her through the TARDIS doors and into the medbay, which is mercifully close.

“What do we do now?” he calls over the Doctor’s giggles, which started around the time they’d gotten through the gate, and hadn’t ceased since. Graham shakes his head, and squats down to eye the Doctor. They’ve gotten her onto a medical bed, though they couldn’t force her to lay down, and she’s nearly doubled over in laughter, though Ryan can’t find anything even remotely funny.

“Doc?” Graham calls softly, to no response. “You alright?”

She just shakes her head and laughs harder, hard enough to hiccup.

“I’m— _hic!_ —fine, old man!” Something about this forces another round of laughter, which by now has brought tears streaming down her face. Graham stares, vaguely insulted.

“Old man?” he repeats. The Doctor nods, then reaches out to take him by the shoulders, and draws him close.

“I’m gonna tell you a secret,” she says. Graham gives Ryan a puzzled look, who only shrugs.

“Er, okay,” he says. “What is it?”

The Doctor nods, looks him in the eye. She seems to be studying him intently. 

“I,” she says, “used to be an old man.”

Then she’s laughing again, doubled over, her hands on her stomach, leaving Ryan and Graham to stare. Yaz hovers anxiously behind.

“What do we do with her?” she asks. Graham shakes his head.

“Beats me,” he says. “Old man. Huh.” He looks, Ryan notices, rather offended still. “I could’ve guessed that ages ago.”

“We all could’ve,” Ryan says. He’s rapidly losing patience with the whole situation. He’s still got two hands on the Doctor’s shoulders, steadying, but he wouldn’t need to hold her upright if she would just _lie down_. Problem is, she’s laughing too hard to register any of their requests, which is funny, because it’s more than she’s laughed in weeks, and there’s a small, resentful part of Ryan which would almost have her not laugh at all. Not like this, and not when she won’t even look them in the eye, otherwise.

“I’m going to get her tea,” he says, and moves to take his hands off her shoulders. Only he never makes it. The moment he shifts his weight, the Doctor’s hands shoot up, and wrap around his wrists.

“Don’t leave,” she says, and he stops, surprised. Possibly because she sounds so desperate. “Are you leaving because of me? Hang on a bit, I’m cool, I can be cool—”

“I never said you weren’t,” Ryan replies, but he doesn’t remove his hands. Instead he shoots Graham and Yaz a baffled look. No luck—they look just as confused as he is.

“Uh, me and Yaz can get you some tea,” Graham volunteers, ignoring Yaz’s slight wilt. The Doctor bobs her head, but doesn’t even look at them. She’s watching Ryan, as if worried he’ll take off. “That okay, Ryan?”

“Yeah, sure,” Ryan says. He doesn’t watch them as they turn to go, the doors banging behind, only keeps an eye on the Doctor, who still has a death grip around his wrists. She doesn’t loosen it, even when they’re gone.

“Er, you can let go of me, Doctor.”

The Doctor stares at him for a long moment. Then, she laughs, dropping her head.

“Sorry,” she says. She’s grinning again, that too wide, too loopy grin. Ryan’s annoyance resparks. “Silly old me. Never know when to let go.”

She reaches out, and, still grinning broadly, pats Ryan on the shoulder. A single pat, light and gentle. Like a cat tapping at a toy. Then she withdraws her hands and clasps them together in her lap, before looking around the room. Her legs swing off the side of the bed, back and forth like a child’s. 

“Where are we, then?” Her gaze is wide, innocent. For a moment, Ryan is baffled by the switch. Then it hits him, and he laughs.

She looks like one of his mates, high as a kite, and trying to play it cool. As if she’s realized her sober persona is slipping, and is drugged enough to think she can retain some semblance of it.

He wonders if he should tell her it’s far too late for that. He doesn’t. Instead, he decides to play along.

“We’re in your medbay.” He’s smiling now too, if only at the humor of the situation. “You got a bit drugged, Doctor. Or…gassed, or something. We’re waiting here until it wears off.”

“Am I” She wrinkles her nose. “What was it, aspirin? Don’t give me aspirin, by the way. That’ll kill me.”

“What?” Ryan’s grin falls from his face. Now, he recalls dimly, he knows why there’s no aspirin on the TARDIS. “Oh my god, Doctor, how have you never told us that?”

The Doctor shrugs, an over-exaggerated heave of her shoulders. “I dunno. You seem like smart humans. Friends. Mammals. Don’t seem like the type to give an unsuspecting person aspirin.” She frowns. “Mammals. You’re not that different from dolphins, are you?”

“Uh—” Ryan does not at all trust himself to not give somebody aspirin. He also can’t help but feel vaguely insulted by the dolphin comment. “No, pretty different, actually. Why don’t you lie down?”

“Lie down?” The Doctor gapes. “Where?”

“On the bed.” To make his point, Ryan pats the paper-covered mattress. “You’re on one.”

“What? No way—am I?” Her gaze follows his hand, and her eyes widen. Then she drops into a giggle. “How did I not know that?”

“Uh—” Again, Ryan isn’t sure how to answer that. He’s also not sure how to hold a conversation with a very drugged Doctor. Ryan’s always been the sober type, thanks to his nan’s influence, which has always tagged him as a) the designated driver and b) a shoulder to cry on. To date, he’s developed a strong dislike of dealing with drunk people, even if those people happen to be very good friends.

Only the Doctor isn’t just a very good friend. She’s possibly his best friend, and she’s saved his life too many times to count. 

“Why don’t you lie down,” he says firmly. “You might feel a bit better.”

“I feel _great!_ ” she replies, only to cringe under his pointed look. “Okay. Okay. Lying down. Right now.”

She gropes for the edge of the bed, grasps it, and leans forward, as if she’s about to fall face-first into a pillow. Problem is, there is no pillow, only the hard-tiled floor, several feet below.

“Wrong way, Doctor.” Ryan grabs her by the shoulders and gently eases her backwards and to the side, where he knows the pillow to be. The Doctor huffs, but lets him guide her, until her head meets the pillow.

“Oh. That’s where it is.” She laughs, then curls upon her side, drawing her knees to her chest. Huddled there, with her coat long enough to act as a makeshift blanket, she looks small. Some of Ryan’s annoyance seeps away. Some.

“Right.” He leans back, then settles back against the wall beside the bed, arms crossed. He shakes his head. “Blimey, Doctor, you’re a right piece of work sometimes, you know that?”

It’s not a nice thing to say. In fact, he shouldn’t have said it at all. It’s his annoyance seeping out, his frustration after weeks of efforts, baking and waiting and checking on her, which all have produced nothing. Only a grumpy, unhappy Doctor, who claims to be their friend and yet won’t treat them with anything more than the bland familiarity of a coworker.

“Am I?” She doesn’t seem insulted. She’s only watching him, her gaze half-hidden by the hair that’s falling over her face, her eyes tracking uncertainly over his expression. “Why’s that, then?”

“I—” Ryan opens his mouth, then shuts it again. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I only meant—”

What did he mean? He doesn’t know. It’s nagging at him though, this great big elephant between the two of them, and possibly only the two of them, and all of a sudden he notices that the light has dimmed to a cold blue, and maybe _that’s_ what tips him over the edge.

“I meant you,” he says in a huff, and he can already feel the avalanche starting, the rocks rolling down a hill too fast to stop, but he doesn’t even think about shutting up. “It’s _you_ , Doctor, and who you are, and everything you never tell us. Because we know you, even if you think we don’t, yeah? We know you’re sad, and something’s eating at you, but you won’t tell us what, you won’t even admit you’re sad, you just run around like—like—like you’re a bloody intergalactic tour guide and not our friend!”

It’s out in a rush, and so quick it takes him a second to realize he’s said it all. Then it clicks, and he shuts his mouth. The Doctor doesn’t speak, but only watches him, her eyes impossibly sad and, he realizes suddenly, impossibly old.

How has he never noticed it before? Ryan knows age. He’s seen it on his nan, and on his grandad, and even his own mother, back when she was alive. He knows the wrinkles that form and the gray hairs that poke through brown or black, knows the creak of a voice that’s seen years. He knows what age looks like.

But maybe he only knows it on humans. Because now, looking into the Doctor’s eyes, deep and sad and full of a thousand things he could never identify, Ryan realizes that he’s only been reading half the story this whole time.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, though he’s not sure for what. But the Doctor just gives a tiny, minuscule shake of her head. For a moment, neither of them say anything. In the silence that follows, blue light bathes the medbay. Distantly, Ryan can feel the start of a headache.

Then, inexplicably, a smile cracks over the Doctor’s face. She drops her chin and brings a hand to cover her mouth, because all of a sudden she’s laughing, quietly at first, but then hoarsely, as if she’s run out of mirth but can’t quite stop.

“The blue light,” she gasps, her hand dropping from her mouth. It reaches up to find his wrist, and grasps tight. “Ryan, I can’t fix the blue light.”

“That’s okay,” he replies, confused. She’s still drugged, he can see that in her laugh and the loose shake of her shoulders, the slight unfocus in her eyes. “I told you, it’s fine. I can deal.”

But she’s shaking her head, still laughing, tears in her eyes. Her hand is a vise on his wrist. 

“You don’t even know how old I am,” she gasps, like it’s the most hilarious thing in the world. “Ryan, did you know I’m three thousand years old?”

“What?” Shock has his jaw dropping, his hands falling to his sides. He stares at her, as she pulls his wrist closer, cradling it like a stuffed animal. “How can you—but you only look—”

“Just kidding,” she giggles, and relief crashes through him, only to be smashed at her next words. “I don’t know how old I am. Lost count. But I might be four billion, if you count the confession dial.”

“Confession—what?”

The Doctor doesn’t answer. She only pulls him closer, and he comes willingly, torn between shock and curiosity. She’s still chuckling, that same smile upon her face, but as he comes closer he can see the cracks around the edges, like plaster. 

“I’m so old, you know,” she says, and tries to tap the side of her nose, but misses completely. “That once I fought in a war of time itself. And I ended it. And I put the whole universe back together, and I pretended it didn’t happen. I even thought I saved my own people.”

Ryan stares. His head is spinning. In the dizziness, he catches the tail of the last sentence, and clings. “Saved—hang on, Doctor. What do you mean saved?”

Saved, past tense. Saved, as in gone now. Saved, as in—

The Doctor sighs, a rush of air that blows the hair away from her face, and sags into her pillow. There aren’t tears in her eyes, but there’s a shininess that shouldn’t be there, a glittery, spun-glass look, like she’s seconds from breaking. All of a sudden, he has the wild thought that the pillow and mattress might be the only thing keeping her from shattering upon the ground.

“They’re gone,” she mumbles into the pillow. Then she laughs, hard and humorless, as if she’s still trying for mirth but can’t remember why. “They’re all gone. I thought I saved them, but—”

She drops off suddenly, as sharp as a cliff’s edge. Ryan stands there, frozen. He can’t feel his fingers for her grip, but he can’t feel the rest of his body either. He’s numb, dulled into inaction.

“I’m—” He doesn’t know what to say. “Doctor, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know—”

The lights are a deep, eerie blue, and all of a sudden he knows why. His head aches, but it’s the pressure that comes from struggling not to cry. He can feel a lump, deep in his throat, not because of those people—he can’t even imagine the loss of it, can’t picture it in his mind—but because now the image is slotted together, and he sees. The hours under the flooring. The refusal to eat, the irritation. The paper-thin smile, one strong gust of wind from tearing itself in half.

“Doctor,” he whispers, and he still doesn’t know what to say. Then, a beat later, he realizes he doesn’t have to. The Doctor’s grip is growing loose on his wrist, her breathing long. She’s falling asleep, he realizes, and for a selfish moment he’s grateful—how could he possibly react to that revelation?—then a second later, he’s just sad. Stunned too, but mostly sad, right to the bottom of his heart, because the Doctor—his best friend—is hurting, and he is powerless to help.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, not loud enough to wake her, and carefully inches his hand from her grip. Then he tucks both hands into his pockets, ignoring the tremble of his fingers, and slips out the door. He doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh, poor Ryan. Poor Doctor. Don't worry though, it will all be resolved. And I tried to show a bit of Ryan's frustration here, in that he really does want to help, but it's so hard to help when the Doctor isn't giving *anything*. I hope I got that balance here. Anyway, thank you ALL for the lovely comments, I'm terrible at responding but just know I read and appreciate every one. You guys are amazing.


	5. Chapter 5

The next morning, the Doctor wakes up, and Yaz and Graham are there to greet her. Ryan is not. He’s not sure he can be, not when Yaz and Graham don’t know, and not since he’s already decided not to tell them. How could he? The Doctor’s secrets are not his to tell. 

But at the same time, he doesn’t rate his ability to keep a straight face, especially since the Doctor might not even remember the conversation. What if she doesn’t? Then again, what if she does? He’s not sure which is better, and he’s not sure how he’d react to either, and so thus his mind whirls, circle after circle, never coming to a conclusion.

So he stays in his room. The blue lighting has returned, and worse than ever, seeping under the door and through the walls, and though he lies on his bed, pressing a pillow into his face, he can’t seem to block it out. It’s almost as if it’s permeated inside of him, soaked in through his skin to touch his very soul, and there it clings, like oil. Impossible to scrub off. 

He wonders if that’s how the Doctor feels. He doesn’t know enough to say. Sure, he’s felt loss, and he knows the measure of it; knows how it can sweep you off your feet in an instant, and grind you into dust. Turn your whole life small, make your sum existence one of hurt and longing, of terrible grief. He knows what it means to lose someone. Knows what it means to lose more than one person, actually.

But he doesn’t know how to be the last, and that’s what he turns over in his mind. He stares at the ceiling, having long since discarded the pillow, and tries to imagine the rest of the human race being gone. Yaz, Graham, all his mates from home. The entirety of the planet, scrubbed clean. What would it feel like? How would it hurt?

He can’t even wrap his mind around it. It’s too big, too impossible. Too out of the ordinary, even for him. He moves his hand to his chest, and feels his heart beating. It’s like that, he decides. His own heartbeat, a constant comfort in his ears. He can’t imagine life without it.

But the Doctor can. The Doctor lives it, and he’s no idea what to do with that information. He’s no idea how to comfort her, what to say. It’s not better to stay away, surely, but at the same time—

Well. He just doesn’t know what to do. 

He stays in his room through the moments when he’s sure the Doctor has awoken, and then for some time beyond that. He knows when Yaz and Graham leave the infirmary—he hears their footsteps in the hallway. 

He hears when they stop too, right outside his door. Or rather, one pair stops, a pair he’s come to know well in the last several years. It’s Graham, and Ryan rolls onto his side, watches the shadows of his feet shift under the door. They look indecisive.

The knock that sounds against the door is not. It comes in three, sharp raps, firm enough to make Ryan sit up. Graham doesn’t wait for his affirmative, but opens the door a crack, wedging his foot in the space.

“Ryan, son?” he calls softly. For a moment, Ryan just watches the blue light seeping in through the opening.

“Yeah, grandad?”

“Uh—” Graham coughs, then opens the door wider, wide enough to cast his silhouette upon the floor. “Uh, well, the Doctor’s alright and everything. She’s working on repairs, you know, where she always works.”

In the console room. Under the floor. Ryan grimaces, and nearly misses the next words.

“She seemed disappointed you weren’t there when she woke up. I mean, don’t get me wrong, that woman says nothing, but—I don’t know. Just seemed a bit expectant, I guess.”

There’s a pause, and they both still with it, breaths hanging in the air. Then Graham coughs, breaking the moment.

“Well, anyway. She’s under the flooring. If you wanted to check on her.”

It’s not a command—it’s barely a suggestion—but Ryan gets the underlying message. Knows what he has to do, even though anxiety pangs at him. Which is stupid, because he has no right to be worried, not with what the Doctor’s going through, and _he should be a better friend_ , it’s just—

Well, what if he gets it wrong?

A stupid fear. A silly fear. He swallows it, and when Graham leaves without bothering to close the door—another message—Ryan stands, and moves towards it. His hands are clammy with nerves. He doesn’t think too much about what she’d said—whenever he does, a terrible surge of sadness runs through him.

The Doctor is, as Graham had said, in the console room. He can hear the clangs issuing from the flooring, and almost smiles, until he remembers why she’s down there. Distraction. Distraction from food, and sleep, and life. Distraction from friends.

Not this friend though, Ryan reminds himself, and it’s with that thought that he lowers himself into the flooring, landing with a soft clang. Immediately, the banging and clattering stops. There’s a short, apprehensive pause, and then it resumes, more frenetic than before.

“Doctor?” Ryan calls as he rounds the bend which will take him to her usual work spot. “Doctor? You down here?”

She doesn’t answer, but the clangs lessen in volume and pace. After a moment, she calls, shortly, “I’m here.”

“Oh. Good.” He’s still approaching, his footfalls soft across the metal. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”

Another pause. A short answer. “Fine.”

It’s all bite, but really, he’s now come to realize, it’s just bark. When he rounds the bend, she’s still hammering away—on what, he doesn’t know—her goggles on and her back to him. _Don’t talk to me_ might as well be a sign hanging on her back.

Ryan has never been very good at listening to signs. So he steps forward anyway, stopping until he’s only a few feet away.

“I, uh. Wanted to talk to you.” Best to cut to the chase, right? He’s not so sure, but he can’t think of anything else. And sure enough, the Doctor hunches in on herself, her hammer freezing midair.

“’Bout what?” Her tone is extraordinarily careful. As if she’s treading barefoot on glass.

“Oh, you know.” Ryan shrugs, even though she’s not looking at him. “Just about some things. That you said. Last night. I don’t know if you remember, or—”

“I remember.” Sharp. Quiet. Ryan pauses, mouth open, then shuts it slowly.

“Oh. Good.” He fidgets, unsure how to continue. Talking to her is like trying to pluck a flower from a cactus; one wrong move and he’ll be impaled. “Yeah, I, uh—well—you mentioned something—”

He’s saying it all wrong, every word. The Doctor is listening, he can tell, but she’s not saying anything as he trips and stumbles over words, tries to get to some sort of point. He’s not even sure what that point is. It might be sorry, but that’s not quite enough, he thinks, for the magnitude of the situation. 

“Ryan.” She cuts him off softly this time, but still firm. She’s not looking at him. “I know what we talked about. I’d rather not talk about it now.”

“Oh. Okay.” He stops and flounders, tongue-tied. He’s all about respect, but somehow, he has a feeling this isn’t the right way to go about it. But when is pushing okay? Sometimes friends need that, he knows, but blimey—it’s not as if he knows the Doctor. Doesn’t know a thing about her. “Okay. I get that. Only—”

No. He’s going for it. He can feel it, the same way he can feel the way he’s going to shoot his shot on the court, whether he makes it or not. Bravery—or possibly foolhardiness—takes over, and before he knows it, the ball is arcing through the air. 

Whether he makes it? Well, that’s a different story. Sometimes, Ryan thinks, the point is in the trying.

“Only I think we should talk about it,” he says, and doesn’t see the Doctor move, doesn’t hear her refute, so he continues. “I mean, I said what I said last night, yeah? And I know maybe it wasn’t the nicest thing of me to say, but I think my point stands a little bit, Doctor. I don’t want you to shut us out, yeah? Because we’re still your friends. Not your tourists to show around, or anything like that. Just friends. And I think real friends tell people their problems.”

Which is true, he reflects, because he’s lived it. He has friends now, he has a whole new fam in place of his old, and it’s not the same, but it’s definitely something. And perhaps nothing can replace what the Doctor has lost, but isn’t a poor substitute still better than no substitute? It’s got to mean something.

For several long moments, there’s nothing. Then the Doctor sighs, her shoulders sagging, and sets the hammer down upon the machinery. With two hands, she lifts her goggles up, and puts them on her forehead. When she turns, Ryan sees the red ring marks around her eyes. She doesn’t look like she’s been crying. She only looks tired. Dreadfully so. 

“You wouldn’t understand, Ryan,” she says quietly. There’s a challenge there too, a glove laid down between them. “It’s not something you, or any of your species will understand. Because it won’t happen to you. I made sure of that.”

“Okay.” Ryan steps forward, picking up the glove as he goes. “You could explain it though. If you want. Not for me, I mean. Just to talk about it. My nan always used to tell me to talk, when my mum died. So I didn’t bottle things up.”

The Doctor eyes him with a hint of tired amusement. “You’re not a therapist.”

“I’m not saying you need one,” Ryan says, though he can’t help but think that she probably does. “I’m saying—I’m your friend, you know. And I’m pretty sturdy. Seen people I love die. It won’t hurt me as much as it’s hurting you, I promise.”

When the Doctor doesn’t say anything, he takes another step forward, and gives a small, encouraging grin. He’s not sure if it helps. She’s not looking at him. Her eyes are on his shoes, but they’re glittering too-bright.

“I promise,” he repeats, and then hesitates. “Just—if you want to talk about it. I’m here.”

The Doctor is still staring at his shoes. Then, abruptly, she whirls around and snatches a nearby wrench. With hasty, almost frantic movements, she applies it to a bolt and starts to turn. Her goggles remain on her head, clearly forgotten. Ryan watches her hands work, the steady, desperate turns, the click of the tools.

“It’s nothing.” She’s shaking her head, back and forth, back and forth. “Really, Ryan, it’s nothing. It doesn’t—it doesn’t feel—”

Her breath is hitching. Ryan comes up beside her, lays a steadying hand on her shoulder. She pauses, takes a deep breath, then continues to unscrew the bolt.

“It’s not nothing,” she says this time, each word an apparent effort. “It feels like moving to a foreign country. Have you ever lived in a foreign country, Ryan?”

“Uh, no.” At this response she only bobs her head, as if expecting it.

“It’s like moving to a foreign country, only you’re alone.” She speaks quickly, like she has to get it all out before it catches up to her. All haste, rough and clumsy. “And everything is different, and it’s not a bad difference, because difference is brilliant—but it isn’t yours. 

“Now—” her voice is brisk, almost business-like, except for the slight waver— “when you move to a foreign country, especially in your day and age, your family is only a phone call away. A text, even. A skype. A facetime. But it’s like—it’s as if you pick up the phone and you—you call the right n-number—”

Her voice is hitching, the words faltering, and Ryan moves closer, keeps his hand firm upon her shoulder, in what he hopes to be a comforting gesture. She pauses, shakes her head and licks her lips, and when she does, he catches a tear glistening on her nose. As he watches, it drops, landing on the bolt she’s trying half-heartedly to unscrew.

“You know,” she insists, but her voice is weak and and broken and there are real tears running down her face, something Ryan never could have imagined. She’s still turning the wrench, around and around again. “You know, it’s like—if you pick up the p-phone, and you keep picking it up, and there’s just a dial—just a d-dial—”

The wrench hits the floor first, and bounces. The bolt follows, having come loose at the last moment. The Doctor doesn’t fall, but Ryan catches her anyway, because he thinks she needs it. She lets him—the moment his arms wrap around her, she crumples into his chest with a quiet sob, and tears stain his shirt. 

“I’m sorry,” she sobs, over and over again, and despite himself, despite his own tears gathering, he wants to laugh. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“It’s okay,” he reassures, with a comforting pat on the back. “It’s okay, I don’t mind, I swear I don’t.”

And he doesn’t. All he feels is relief, calm and flat as a pool, smothering the nerves he’d once had. It’s funny; the Doctor, his best friend, the strongest person he knows minus his nan, is crying into his chest, and all he feels is okay.

Because it’s not his burden, he realizes a moment later, nevermind that he’s helping to carry it. It’s not his, and that makes all the difference, because it means he has the strength to put it upon his own shoulders. Sure, not for long. Not forever. But he can take it for a bit, and let the Doctor cry her eyes out, and know that when he feels okay later, she might feel better too. 

He doesn’t know if that’s helping. He doesn’t know if it makes one bit of difference. But then, the blue lights are fading, turning into that warm orange he’s been longing for, and the Doctor’s sobs are calming into quiet tears against his chest. She’s still clinging to him like a life buoy, but he figures that’s probably okay. Besides, it’ll make Yaz hilariously jealous, a thought he can’t help but chuckle at.

“You okay there, Doctor?” he asks after several minutes. The Doctor doesn’t immediately answer, but he feels her head move against him in a back and forth motion.

“I don’t think so,” she mumbles, almost guiltily, and Ryan just gives a soft laugh, then pulls her closer.

“I think that’s okay too,” he says, and with one hand, ruffles her hair. It’s a weird, brotherly move, but he secretly likes it. He’s always wished he could have an older sibling. “Don’t worry, you’re still cooler than Yaz.”

The Doctor laughs, quiet and tear-stained, into his shirt. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles again. “I’m sorry. You didn’t have to do this.”

Ryan frowns over her head. “So? I wanted to.”

There’s a pause, and in it, he can hear her ragged breathing. Then, quietly, “Why?”

Ryan laughs, and uses all his height and strength to draw her closer, into the sort of bear hug he used to give his nan sometimes. “Because, Doctor. I’m your friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me making the Doctor cry over her feelings AGAIN? Perhaps.
> 
> Listen - sometimes all you need is to cry into the arms of your pseudo younger sibling/gentle son, and let it out. Or something.
> 
> I might write another chapter (I have an idea for one!), so keep a lookout if you're still interested in this story! And thank you, so much, for all the kind comments. I truly appreciate them.


End file.
